


Secret Sentimentalist

by FleetingDesires



Series: Love Me Freely [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Melancholy, Possibly Pre-Slash, Possibly Unrequited Love, take it how you wish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27118520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetingDesires/pseuds/FleetingDesires
Summary: London is quiet; Sherlock pens a letter.A/N: Can be read standalone; or as a prequel to the series.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Series: Love Me Freely [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1986172
Comments: 21
Kudos: 40





	Secret Sentimentalist

London is never truly asleep, but tonight, with only the faint wails of sirens for company, he is alone enough. He leans out the window, taking a deep drag of his cigarette, before watching the smoke drift up and away from his face. Deep breaths, in and out, just like he learnt a lifetime ago. It never worked well enough to keep him from spiralling, but at least, for now, the words in his mind slow from a neverending whizz to a churn.

Inhale, and exhale. In with the bad, and out with the good.

Inhale, and exhale. Speeding up death with slower breaths.

Once more, with gusto. Inhale, and exhale.

He stubs out the butt on the edge of the windowsill before carelessly tossing it towards the lifeless street.

As with all nights like this, he sits down at his table, pulling out a few pieces of paper. He fiddles with another cigarette before he reaches for his pen.

_17 June, 2010_

_Nights like this always make me pensive. I wonder if you have times like this, too, where these horrid sentiments unfairly demand to be committed to paper, to manifest itself in the physical world._

_My love, it is quiet enough in London tonight that it reminds me of the nights in Sussex when you were away at university. When I had no warm bed to crawl into at night, when all I had were my thoughts for company. Did you ever miss your annoying little brother rousing you in the dead of night for a cuddle? Or waking up to soft sunshine and whispered conversations?_

_I did. I missed my big brother, my confidante, my sometimes conspirator, my teacher, my best friend. I still miss him. I don't know what a brother is anymore, except that person whom one is bound to have in their lives by virtue of blood. An acquaintance of circumstance._

_You went away to university my brother, and you came back as an adult. Seven years was too large a chasm then to sustain a friendship. Even more so, when the two people involved lead spatially separated lives. You had your world outside of us, and we were merely a summer bubble. I no longer knew who you were. Perhaps it was the process of growing up that opened my eyes to that fact, for as a child I had never considered anyone to have lives external to myself. I suppose, to a certain extent, that still holds true._

_In any case, I have John to fill some of that space now. He is not quite as good a brother as you were, but as you would say, needs must. Would you be saddened by that? That someone, no matter how insignificantly, is able to be some of what you were to me?_

_Well, you needn't be. One can live quite happily without a brother, but I suspect, and at great risk of exposing the true depths of my sentimentality, one would feel rather unfulfilled without having experienced a great love in their life._

_And there's the rub, isn't it? You went away to university my brother, and you came back as the most fascinating adult. A handsome man with a brain to match. I'm sure you knew you were quite a catch, and it manifested in the way you carried yourself. I, with my mis-proportioned limbs, all angles and awkwardness, was so jealous of your easy confidence! Oh, how I tried to tear it down, but you rebuffed me at every turn so expertly. I could not then outmaneuver you any better than I can now, and it still makes me mad._

_Mad. With anger and frustration, yes, but also with love._

_It feels the height of foolishness to declare oneself "mad with love". I suppose I initially had teenage hormones to thank for that, for my body mistaking the adrenaline of competition for something else entirely. Too many times it was all I could do to restrain myself from kissing you. Too many times I have stormed off because I didn't know if I could have stood one more second of holding myself within my own space. I know not whether the goal was to stop you from proving your superiority once again or that you had already done so and had me falling deeper into these wretched depths._

_Do you see now, my dear, my heart, why I have to keep up this fight? I tire of it, yet I cannot allow myself to stop. The signs of anger and ardent desire are not so dissimilar at a distance, and so I must keep you there in order to keep you from discovering the truth. I would rather have you an antagonistic presence in my life than not at all._

_I pray you will forgive me this selfishness. I know it has not been easy to deal with me and yet, I must ask you to do so. As fanciful and improbable it is, and even more so for a rational man, I do still wish. If I had not a shred of hope I will surely turn into the sociopath the world perceives me to be._

_“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing_

_and rightdoing there is a field._

_I’ll meet you there._

_When the soul lies down in that grass_

_the world is too full to talk about.”_

_Daybreak approaches, my love, and so I have to end it here, until the next time. Some things can only be entrusted to the deep shadows of an empty night._

_Always,_

_Your Sherlock_

Sherlock read over the letter slowly, once, then twice more, before he heard the morning birds sing their greetings. He folds it into thirds before stuffing it into a pocket of his dressing gown.

Returning to the window, he lights another cigarette. The streets are beginning to show signs of life once again, the early buses rattling along their usual routes, the clanging of metal signalling shutters being rolled up.

Inhale, and exhale. He sticks his free hand into his pocket, fingering the letter.

Inhale, and exhale. He glares at the sun just risen over the opposite rooftop.

Inhale, and exhale.

He stubs out the butt on the edge of the windowsill before tossing it on the embers of the fireplace. After a moment, he tosses the letter along with it, before draping himself on the couch. He closes his eyes when he sees it alight with fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Poem quote from Rumi, I couldn't resist its perfection.
> 
> As always, ~~like and subscribe~~ comments and kudos appreciated!


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